


A Stark in Winterfell

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-17 11:00:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/550830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>prompt: Sansa is the determinedly unwed Queen in the North, but she needs an heir. When Lord Commander Jon Snow stops by Winterfell, she seduces him, so her child will be a Stark, totally and fully. No fluffiness or instant affection, and no "we just found out we're cousins, so it's ok." I'm talking awkward, tension filled seduction of her half-brother, whom she always treated differently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Stark in Winterfell

The letter was from the Maester at Castle Black and began as always. Sam wrote extensively: usually of the wall, the wildlings, and the Others, but that was of secondary interest to Sansa. She skimmed until _Lord Snow_ became _Jon_.

_…Jon enjoyed your last letter. He recalls your affection for lemoncakes and hopes there are plenty in Winterfell. As always he laments that he does not have the time to write back…._

There had been a time when he had written to her, often and affectionately. But that had been before her last visit to Castle Black. She had worn a dress cut low, taken a kiss and felt him hard against her thigh. He had groaned into her mouth and kissed her fiercely with his hands wound tightly in her hair, only to push her away. Half–gasped scant excuses, _we can’t it’s wrong_ , as though she had forgotten. _But we are Starks, not Targaryens nor Lannisters_ , she had wanted to say. _There must always be a Stark in Winterfell_.

She was home, safely alone in her solar, so she allowed the memory to induce a frown. Sansa rubbed the parchment idly between thumb and finger as she continued to read.

_…Lord Snow will be passing by with some thirty men within a fortnight. If it please you, he would have your leave to make camp on the grounds of Winterfell, and — though he has not asked me to ask you, I ask as one friend for (and to, I hope) another — your company. Your descriptions of the Glass…._

Though she loved him, in her own way, Sansa didn’t give a fig what Jon thought of her Glass Gardens so long as he was coming to Winterfell. As for her company—well, she didn’t intend to let Jon go without it.

She smiled, creased the letter, and tossed it into the brazier.

  


There were two glasses on the table. One was too close to the edge; she would have to move it lest it fall. But it seemed too far right now, and she was too tired to stretch the distance. Either way, her hands were occupied by a bottle of Dornish red.

She had learned to drink wine as a girl with Jeyne but Petyr had taught her how to use it. Arbor Gold was a sort of homage to the man who had rescued her when none else would, had loved her and tutored her. Its taste had always been a constant reminder that she could not be Sansa. A reminder that she was not wearing a mask, but that she was a different person entirely. _In your heart_ , she recalled him saying.

She normally would have preferred the Gold to the Dornish but she couldn’t use it, not for this. There was no place for Petyr in Winterfell.

She rolled the bottle between her palms. If she looked closely she could see her reflection. Her face, distorted, peered back at her from between her hands.

Sansa gave it her most winsome smile, the one she had been practicing for Jon. Stretched out over the cylinder, it looked almost gruesome.

  


The feel of his tongue against her sex was queer. Unpleasant because pleasant.

She slid the fingers of her right hand into his hair, dark curls so like her father's, and tugged. His tongue could not give her a babe, any more than her own pleasure. "Jon, don’t…," she murmured, “…you don’t have to.”

Her face was turned to the side but she could feel his gaze on her.

“I want to,” she heard him say. “Please, Sansa. I want to.”

His arm, curled around her thigh, slid up and down steadily. The feather–light pressure was maddening. She would have preferred harsh, bruising touches.

Jon took her silence for dissent and dropped a kiss to her bent knee before making his way up. Gentle caresses and soft nips on every bit of her skin, it felt. She had gotten him drunk enough to forget she was his half–sister, but evidently not drunk enough to forget she was a lady. It seemed he wanted to bring her to her own pleasure before he found his.

Sansa imagined pushing herself up, a fluid motion propelled by the muscles in her stomach, and turning them over, taking him relentlessly until she had wrung the last Stark from him.

Jon’s lips moved from her neck to behind her ear to her chin. She was relieved he had the sense not to kiss her after having had his face between her legs.

His lips found her temple and she shied away from the soft rasp of his beard.

“Jon, please, I feel… empty… I… Jon, I need… _you_.”

She had let her bastard–brother unpin her hair and unlace her smallclothes but had undone herself with her own words. They had tumbled out unbidden and the truth of them made her heart jolt, an erratic bird locked in a cage of her own flesh.

He groaned into her neck and pushed into her so gently it didn’t feel real. “Sansa, Sansa, Sansa,” a whisper, a moan, a promise. “Sansa, Sansa, Sansa,” until she wondered if he knew she had had other names and then until she forgot she had had other names. “Sansa, Sansa, Sansa,” until she couldn’t bear it.

“Sansa, Sansa, Sansa,” until there was nothing but his voice and the feel of his muscles and his scars and the vertebrae in his back beneath her hands.

  


Jon broke his fast with his brothers, as she had expected of him. She joined them, sitting across from him. From time to time his glance would shoot up furtively to her. He looked two kinds of uncomfortable, as though he couldn’t decide between being the brother who had lain with his sister, or the Lord Commander who had broken his vows. It made her smile. She knew exactly who she was.

When she mistakenly met his gaze, dark and dilated, her body suddenly remembered the feel of him licking into her, and the smile slipped off her face.

Sansa clenched her skirts and decided then and there: she would find another bottle of wine to appease his conscience and have him again before they left, on the chance that his seed had not taken root the night previous. And if he wished to take his mouth to her, perhaps she would indulge her curiosity.

  


There would be no curiosity to indulge and no opportunity to receive his seed. She finds the wine bottle but does not take it to him, only cradles it and stares down her reflection. Jon avoids her staunchly and she teaches herself to forget his shame disappoints her. They have done nothing to be ashamed of, anyhow. Petyr would have been proud of her and she likes to think her Lord Father would have been too, for ensuring that there will be a Stark in Winterfell when she is gone.

Jon gives her two children, a girl and a boy, more Stark than she had ever been. She wonders if, wherever he is, Jon knows. She would think it a silly notion, but when she births her babes in the early hours of the morning, there are wolves howling as though heralding their arrival.


End file.
